The gold leaf. [volume] (Henderson, N.C.) 1881-1911, 1887-10-13
AN OLD TRUNK.
HOW WE RAINY EVEN
ING AROUND ITS TREAS
URES.
And dug up from the Hallowed Grave
of the Moss Covered Past the Sweet
and Precious Scenes of Boyhood's
Sunniest Hours.
(W. Ii. Blou1t in Wilson Mirror ]

NV. Ii. Blouat in Wilson Mirror.]
1t is sitting there in the corner, filled
with relics and bits and scraps and
odds and ends which belong to the
buried past, whose scenes are now en-
messed with the sweetest and tenderest
: memories. That old trunk is a sacred
and hallowed thing to us, and we never
touch or open it unless the heart is sad
! in its dreamings, and its yearning longs
to float back once again on the waves
of memory to those dear old isles of
happy days in the far away ocean of
the Past. And SO this afternoon we
have been bent over this dear old trunk,
taking up this thing, looking at that,
reading this letter, and dropping tear
! to the memory of the one whose noble
I heart prompted it, but who has been
for so many years restings in that silent
land where no letters ever come back
to cheer the hearts of the loved ones
left behind. Sleep on Tom, noble
hearted, strong and brilliant minded
young man, sleep on, but we know
there is meeting place Over There
where friendships formed on earth will
be united in sweeter ties than ever.
! And here is a letter from Bobble, writ
ten in boyish hand from dear, sweet,
blessed old Belford when we were
homesick cadet at Hillsboro. 1t is
tear stained and blotted with drops of
grief, for We cried over it then, and we
cried over it again in after years when
the news came to US from Rocky
Mount that one of the purest and
sweetest hearts that ever ennobled and
dign:hed manhood, and which lent
such a charm and a fascination to
society, had been stilled forever in the
hush of death. and that his voice would
never more be heard. And here is
bundle of letters from our sainted
father all of them breathing that high
dignity and uasu!lied purity and cour-
teous considerations which ever dis
tinguished his dealings with his chill
dren and with Others, and which made
the Rev. Mr.. Owens exclaim when he
went up to higher place of existence
that he ''llved without one stain of re-
proach and died without an enemy"
Oh what memories cluster around
these dear old letters And here are
the love-hlled letters that were written
by our angel mother. But now our
pen stops; language can't depict the
feelings which are now yelling up in
the bosom, and we can't see how to
write, for the heart is pumping the
eyes to overhowing with its waters of
grief, and the vision is blinded with
the spray. Only those who have
mother in Heaven, know anything
about the feelings which now baptize
this precious bundle of letters that
mother wrote.
Putting these old letters sweet,
dear souvenirs of happy past-back
! again in their old accustomed places,
we began to rummage again, and our
eyes fell upon another bit of paper. 1t
was our first attempt at poetry, written
TO our little girl sweetheart long, long
years ago when she used to be the lit
tie Queen of our dreams and our hopes,
and we her little King. But that was
long, long ago. and how wide is the
gulf which rolls between the Then and
Now. She is married and happy. She
has a lovely home, with an accom-
plished and highly intelligent daughter
to grace it with a charm and an at
tractiveness which make it a bower of
Contentment and we are now turning
our face towards life's sunset, for Our
head is already beginning to catch the
spray flung up by the billows on the
ocean of Eternity, and VIC are almost
within hearing of the splashing and the
roaring of the eternal breakers. But
this little paper, all faded and crumpled,
brings back that past, we feel now the
same thrill which shot through our
heart years ago as We stood, with boyish
ardor, at the head of the lane and
caught glimpse of her blushing face
as the equipage went by.
And here is sanother bundle of letters
and, like the faint perfume of a with
cred rose long pressed in book and
hidden from sight, there comes to us
half-forgotten story of the past. The
bloom and freshness faded from the
flower OF love fifteen years ago. At its
best it was but a faded rose, grow
ing in the rarifed, somewhat chilly
atmosphere of intellectual friendship
and not that glorious crimson rose,
that hourishes only in the warm tropical
breezes of eternal passion and deathless
feeling. And right by it is another
bundle of letters with blue ribbon tied
around them and still breathing the
faint perfume of fowers-hallowed
tokens that love used to wear. And
now as we pick up this envelope what
a THRILL it gives US as We come upon